Gradient Descent
by Whisp
Summary: When Clint was a kid, he rotated through a series of placements. Even at 6 years old, he knew that every family was an elaborate game of tests and illusions. Now at 25, long past the time he thought himself too old for the game, Clint abruptly finds reality yanked out from underneath him and try as he might, there's no secure footing to be found.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Gradient Descent  
Author: whisp  
Summary:  
When Clint was a kid, he rotated through a series of foster homes. Even at 6 years old, he knew that every placement was an elaborate game of illusions. Every smiling family poised, waiting for the moment he screwed up and the carpet got yanked out from under him again.

Now at 25, long past the time he thought himself too old for the game, Clint abruptly finds reality yanked out from underneath him and try as he might, there's no secure footing to be found.

Please note: Clint goes through some serious issues. Read the warnings.

Pairing: Clint Barton/Phil Coulson  
Warnings: Graphic torture, serious mental illness, language, hurt/comfort, will become nc-17 later on.

This fic requires more of a disclaimer than I usually give. The main character will be dealing with a major mental illness (I would prefer not to give it away, but if you'd like to know what illness it is before reading, please PM me). I am in no way trying to romanticize/make light of this illness. It is a very serious disorder. The way it is portrayed in this fic is in no way representative of a typical case. Nor is it typical of the challenges or co-morbidities that patients must face. I have taken the extreme presentations of the illness and used it to write something for entertainment purposes only. I have not meant to offend anyone in any way. Please PM/email me if you'd like to discuss anything further.

Edit Jan 10/13 - Title changed because I hated the old title. Sorry if there is any confusion caused by this, but I couldn't even stand to look at this fic after a while because I hated the title so much. I have no clue what possessed me to chose it in the first place.

* * *

When Clint gets back to SHIELD headquarters, he is going to have a word with the staff from recruitment. A nice long chat about the misrepresentation of SHIELD activities.

When he was nineteen, SHIELD had swayed Clint over with romantic notions of espionage and intrigue; shooting bad guys and saving the world. At that point, Clint had been with the circus since he was nine. There had been a time in his young life when he wouldn't have left it for the world, but years past and disillusioned by dwindling audiences and lacklustre performances, Clint had easily agreed.

Conveniently enough, SHIELD had neglected to mention the long hours spent gathering intel, waiting for shots, and generally being bored out of his mind. The ramshackle safe houses that alternated stifling hot and freezing cold. The bullets that rained down like hail. The sprains, the pulled muscles, the broken bones -

And oh yeah, Clint remembers idly as another fist cracks him across the jaw, the torture. They really should mention the torture.

It's not that he isn't prepared. If it's one thing that SHIELD does right, it's that they prepare their agents to withstand pain. In his five year tenure, Clint's been shot, stabbed, starved, electrocuted, drowned, hit by cars, and thrown off buildings. A pair of guys working him over is nothing. He just really would have appreciated the head up before he signed up. So he could have run the other way. Or towards it. Whatever. Clint's never been one for sane, rational choices.

Out of absolutely everything though, the part that really pisses him off isn't the loose teeth or the burgeoning concussion. Not the eye currently swelling shut or the brightness of his blood smeared across his captors' hands. It's the fact that Clint doesn't. fucking. know. anything. He can't understand why these retards thought that grabbing the sniper would give them the location of a level 6 classified base. If Clint is going to be tortured, he at least wants the satisfaction of being able to withhold valuable information. For fuck's sake, he's only been at SHIELD for five years. He's a field asset. They don't tell you jack shit.

Not to mention he must be in the most clichéd interrogation ever staged. For one thing, they're in an abandoned warehouse. And he's being worked over by a pair of thugs while cuffed to a chair. Seriously. Who the fuck actually does that?

He tries telling his tormentors this multiple times. They're not amused.

So he settles for gritting his teeth and riding out the punches, listening to the faint static of the comm unit hidden in his ear canal. He's seen their faces, so there's zero chance they're planning on leaving him alive, but hopefully they'll take long enough for rescue to come. If they come. He's been out of range a while now, so there's no chatter over the comm channel, but he can't quite quash the faint hope that SHIELD would send a retrieval team, instead of cutting their losses and heading back to base.

In retrospect, Clint thinks that maybe he shouldn't have mouthed off as much as he did. Because after the third hour of momma jokes, they stop caring as much about the location of the base, and more about making Clint's life a living hell.

The taller of the two, which Clint has dubbed 'macho nacho' guy says something to 'stuffs his pants in overcompensation' guy and disappears for an hour. When he comes back, he's holding a car battery and a knife and a grin like Christmas had arrived early.

Clint takes back his competency remark. It turns out they're very thorough.

They seem to be playing a game. Who can think of the most creative ways to make him scream. Clint starts the night holding back, biting his lip clean through and starting on his inner cheek after that. It doesn't last long.

Before the night is over, Clint finds he can barely gather the strength to lift his chin off his chest. His limbs are heavy, his hands no longer feel like his own, all the strength and nimbleness have long since been stripped away. Half his fingers are missing fingernails, the other half are crooked and broken. There's a slow line of blood meandering from the cut at his temple to the tip of his chin where it drips off steadily.

Hardly able to stay upright, the only reason he's still in the chair is that he's cuffed to it, the warm metal now slicked with sweat and blood. The air is permeated with the stench of urine and the distinct smell of charred meat from when they had skinned the flesh off his body in strips, then touched the ends of the battery to the raw wound, laughing as he convulsed.

Clint feels a hand bury itself in the hair at the back of his head and yank back roughly, forcing him to squint up at his captors though the eye not swollen shut. "The co-ordinates?" The taller one asks, like this time will be any different from the rest.

At this point, it's pretty well established that Clint isn't going to say fuck all. The question is really more a prelude to more pain than it is any attempt to get valid information. So when Clint refuses to answer, his captor breaks his nose and asks again.

This time, Clint tries to muster up a decent sneer, blood streaming from his nose around a shock of pain, but finds he can't do much more twitch a lip back, as he's much more preoccupied with wheezing for air, shallowly through cracked ribs. Distantly, he wonders whether he should be more worried about the amount of blood pouring from his nostrils, but he can't really bring himself to care.

However, the next time he doesn't answer, his captor clamps a hand over his mouth, and suddenly Clint cares a hell of a lot when that effectively cuts off his oxygen supply. His captor holds his hand there tightly, fingers pressing hard enough to bruise for long agonizing minutes, until Clint's thrashing against the chair, sucking half clotted blood into his lungs in a desperate attempt to breathe. It's only when Clint's eyes start to roll back that his captor lets go and lets Clint gasp in deep shuddering breaths, coughing roughly despite the fire lancing through his ribs.

Clint spits out blood tinged saliva and in the process, probably some loose teeth as well. Most of it ends up running down his chin rather then landing on the floor where he aimed. "Fuck… you…" He slurs.

In response, there's a crackling sound and a sudden flare of light from the corner of his vision. Clint's usually trained unresponsiveness has been muted by prolonged pain so he can't stop his sudden flinch.

"What's that? I'm sorry, I didn't hear you." The shorter one asks, grinning widely from beside the battery. He sends sparks flying into the air once again, then yanks one end in close enough to ghost over Clint's skin. His face grows hard, "What did you say those coordinates were?"

Clint feels his throat seize up involuntarily and no matter how hard he tries, he can't bring himself to snark back. He tries to look away, but they bring him back with a jolt of electricity, digging the ends of the wire into the muscle over his hip, where an inch of flesh had been already carved from him.

Clint screams, low and hoarse through shredded vocal chords. Every muscle in his body contracts, drawn taunt by the current of electricity running through him and suddenly he can't breath, can't think, can't do anything but try to endure the agony running through him. When it finally stops, Clint collapses forward, reduced to a panting, shaking mess.

Then to his utter humiliation, he can feel the slid of hot tears start from the corners of his eyes.

His captors laugh themselves stupid. "Poor little agent." Shorty coos. "Where's that attitude of yours now?"

At this point, all Clint can do is shake his head and even that's an effort. He can't do it, he can't stand it anymore, and he almost finds himself praying for an end before he remembers that God had forsaken him long before this.

The absolutely worst part is that he would have told them. He would have betrayed everything he'd ever known if it somehow meant stopping the pain. SHIELD was right not to trust him. It's that realization, beyond anything else that's happened tonight, that finally defeats him.

There is no help coming. Clint knows this now with certainty. He possesses no valuable knowledge, has no irreplaceable skills. SHIELD wasn't going to waste resources to rescue a dime a dozen sniper. They had probably already replaced him and slotted Clint's file away with all the other agents that just couldn't make the cut.

A palm taps roughly against his cheek. When there's no response, the slaps get harder, but Clint is gone. Broken and exhausted, he has mentally checked out for the night, settling into a space that's halfway between consciousness, where everything is fuzzy and floating and the only thing he has to concentrate on is getting in that next breath.

Distantly, he hears talking, "He's done. What should we do with him?"

"Just leave him. If he's alive in the morning, we'll see if we can trade him for something worthwhile."

There's footsteps and the distant slam of a door and then Clint is alone.

The night cools the warehouse at an alarming speed. Clint, who's bare-chested and covered in a tacky cold sweat, can't decide if the shivering is from the lack of heat or if it's leftover muscle spasms from the electricity. He's trying to figure out a plan of escape, but finds he's having trouble staying conscious for long enough to get his thoughts straight.

Several hours into the night, he's slowly awakened when the static in his ear coalesces into a low steady buzz. Through it, he can hear the faint sound of someone talking.

Fuzzily, Clint tries to focus. The agent on the other end repeats himself sharply and Clint realizes he's calling his name.

"Copy." Clint rasps through razorblades, "This is Agent Barton."

"Copy Agent Barton. Glad to finally hear your voice. What's your status?"

"Completely fucked." Clint chokes out a laugh, then winces as his body cries out in protest.

"Didn't think you'd give up so easily, Agent."

The smartass in him wants to make a comment, but another wave of dizziness suddenly overtakes him. Clint fights to hear the voice over the roaring in his ears. "Mmmhmm." He mumbles, head lolling forward.

"Barton! Come on, talk to me."

Clint tries valiantly not to lose consciousness. He can't remember doing it, but at some point, his eyes have slid shut and it's a struggle to lift them again.

The agent is speaking more urgently now, sharper and clipped. "Agent Barton, you stay with me. I need you to focus. Do you have a fix on your location?"

It's that cool hint of steel that Clint grasps onto like a lifeline. He licks his cracked lips and croaks out, "Warehouse."

"Going to need more than that. Description, street name, anything you can see."

"'m cuffed." He mumbles.

"Barton, I've read your file. I know you've escaped handcuffs while blindfolded and swinging upside-down from a trapeze. Move."

Slowly, Clint pulls his head up enough to check his surroundings. The cuffs are too tight to slip, even if he manages to dislocate his thumb, but if Clint can get the room to stop spinning long enough, he can maybe find something to pick the lock. His captors have left him alone for the night, confident that Clint won't be able to stand, much less escape. In truth, Clint's not a hundred percent certain about the standing part either, but he'll deal with that when he gets there.

He works his way over to the nearest crate, each scrape of the chair shooting spears of lightning through his brain, but it's worth it when he spots the construction staple halfway embedded in the wood. He'll has to work with his back to the crate, but visually Clint has an eidetic memory, so his hands can find the staple again easily.

By the time he works the metal out of the wood, he's cracked the nail half off on his pointer finger, but he still has enough dexterity left to straighten the staple and insert the end into the handcuffs.

Once he's out, Clint climbs to his feet, wobbling dangerously. The world spins wildly, forcing him over double and retching from the nausea. Eyes streaming, Clint clutches the back of the chair for a desperate moment before he can steady himself enough to stumble towards the door.

Belatedly, he remembers the voice over the comm. "West entrance. No hostiles. Location unknown."

"Affirmative. Find an extraction point."

Outside, nothing is familiar, which doesn't surprise him. He doesn't think they travelled for too long after they snatched him, but he spent most of it unconscious, so he may have lost days, not just the hours that he noted from the position of the sun. Picking a random direction, Clint starts off, trying desperately to find any landmark, any street sign that can tell him where he is.

Some of his larger wounds have reopened with all the movement. Despite his best efforts, he still leaves behind a little trail of blood, droplets from his fingers, like breadcrumbs weaving haphazardly behind him.

He doesn't know how much time passes as he stumbles around row after row of warehouses, just barely able to keep putting one foot in front of the other. He could be going in circles for all his knows. There's no answer over the comm, he can't reach a contact point, and the dark's creeping in from all angles of his vision.

He stumbles on the curb and can't catch himself in time, hitting the pavement with a grunt of pain. For a moment, he just lays there, letting the night sounds wash over him. Clint's pretty sure he doesn't have it in him to get back up. At least he made a pretty good run at it, he thinks, and closes his eyes.

There's a crackle of static.

"Barton?"

Clint lets out a sob of relief. "'m still here."

The voice softens, "Clint. Don't give up. You're so close."

"I can't." Clint takes a shuddering breath, his fingers curled against the concrete. "I can't do it."

"Clint. Listen to me." The agent says steadily, "You're almost done. Just find a phone and we can bring you home."

Home. In his life Clint's had a lot of homes. Homes where he didn't know when food was coming next. Homes where he nursed hand shaped bruises every night. Homes where the lock didn't work on his bedroom door. But then he remembers the helicarrier and how the engines lull him to sleep every night. How the serenity of the range stretched over him in the mornings. And exactly how pissed Natasha will be if he doesn't come back.

He takes a breath and steels himself. This is going to hurt.

Eventually, he makes it to a street lined with business fronts. The stores are closed for the night, and Clint breaks into the first that he can reach. He leaves rust coloured fingerprints as he dials the emergency number. SHIELD had drilled it into his head before his first mission, so much so that he had dreamed about giant numbers chasing him in his sleep.

He hears a series of clicks as he's transferred through connections. The line rings twice, then the connection clicks open. Clint stumbles through his name, authentication code, and the last few street names he remembers seeing before hanging up and trying to clean the blood off the phone with the hem of his shirt.

Once outside again, he ducks into a nearby alley and hopes that SHIELD finds him before the police do. He finds a hidden away doorway and collapses. The concrete underneath his cheek is cold against his skin but reliably solid and he anchors himself against it.

"Don't even know your name." He mumbles just loud enough for the comm unit to pick him up.

"It's Coulson."

"Do you make a habit of picking up stray snipers, Agent Coulson?"

"Only when they get in the habit of trying to get themselves killed, Agent Barton."

Clint smiles into the darkness, "Thanks."

Slowly, Clint lets his mind drift, but jerks awake in a panic when he feels himself falling asleep. He doesn't want to fall asleep. The voice on the other line is silent. "Coulson? You still there?"

"Did you need something, Agent Barton?"

Swallowing nervously, Clint says, "No.. Just, umm… Don't stop. Talking I mean."

A pause. "I don't have anything to talk about."

"Anything. Please." Clint whispers, "I don't want to die alone."

"Okay." Coulson says. He starts speaking in a low voice, reciting a poem with a steady, drumming rhythm.

Stubbornly, Clint fights for consciousness, clinging to the voice in his ear. He can't make out words anymore, but lets the sound wash over him. Times slips away until he can see movement from three shadowy figures heading towards him. When they come close enough that he can make out a shock of red hair from the figure at point, it's enough that Clint can let go, finally letting his eyes slide shut and the darkness to claim him.


	2. Chapter 2

Clint has to piss. Badly.

He's been laying in bed for the past hour trying to ignore his bladder, but it's a lost cause. If he doesn't get up soon, he's going to have a lot of awkward explaining to do in the morning.

On the plus side, the bathroom is less than ten feet away. On a good day, it's a cakewalk. On a bad day, the bathroom is ten feet away and his fucking hip and leg won't hold him past one.

It's not a good day.

Clint really hates his life right now.

He's been on PT basically since he regained consciousness but the damage had been thorough. The muscle had been shredded by a combination of knife wounds and electricity; he can barely support his weight, much less walk.

His therapist had given him a walker with a meaningful look and makes him take it to his appointments. Clint hates that thing with a passion. He hates the shuffle step it makes him take, he hates the looks of pity he gets when the staff don't think he sees them, and he hates the way it takes up both hands, leaving none to use in defence.

He's just waiting for someone to stick cut up tennis balls on the bottom of the legs and complete his slide into hell.

Even thinking about it gets his blood boiling. He's been laid up for weeks. It's the longest he's been in medical since he started with SHIELD and he's been bedridden for the majority of it. His only visitors have been Natasha and the medical staff and he's about to go out of his mind from inactivity.

He tries not to think about his injuries, he really does, but he's basically alone for all hours of the day and there's not much else to keep his mind occupied. Aside from wallowing in self pity, the only other thing he has to distract himself with is about 30 channels of shit-all on TV. Well that and the fact that his bladder is about to burst.

The walker sits at the end of his bed and Clint sneers at it before manoeuvring himself to edge of his bed.  
His last dose of morphine was before he went to sleep and he doesn't know what time it is now but enough time has passed that the wound throbs dully as he shifts.

Clint takes a breath in, resolutely does not look at the walker, clenches his teeth, and stands.

Pain flares over his right hip and thigh despite his best efforts not to put any weight on it and he's forced to put a hand back on the mattress to steady himself. He swallows the gasp trying to escape and digs in. He's walked off bullet wounds before. Hell, he walked about 20 city blocks on this not even a month ago. He can do this.

Still, it's a long minute before he can straighten, grasping onto the rail at the foot of the bed. Luckily for him, the urgency to pee has taken a backseat to the miniature knives stabbing into his leg, but it's a small victory.

He makes it just about halfway, taking lopsided, staggering steps, before his muscles give and Clint goes sprawling to the ground.

He tries to twist to land on his back, but there's not enough time and he hits with a jarring explosion of pain through his right side. Clint clamps his hands tight over the muscle, mouth open in a soundless scream and curls into himself until his forehead is pressed to the linoleum. He sucks in air through teeth gritted hard enough to creak.

"Fuck!" Clint snarls loudly into the empty room. "Fucking goddamn useless piece of shit!"

He tries to push himself up, but his muscles are shot. The adrenaline is making them shaky enough that Clint can only haul himself up to a half sitting position, and his arms tremble madly as he tries to brace them underneath himself. He collapses back to the ground with another string of swears.

Not for the first time, he finds himself wishing fervently that they hadn't taken away his bow. The thought of shooting something is incredible appealing to him at this moment. Methodically, he runs through the itinerary of swears he has stored in his head. There's a lot.

He didn't know how much time passes until he hears the creak of his door opening.

"Shit, Clint. What are you doing?"

"I'm fucking pissing myself on the floor. What the hell do you think?" Clint snaps.

"That you're an idiot." Natasha shoots back and it's a testament to the years they've put in together that she doesn't say any more, just hauls him to his feet as gently as she can and helps him hobble to the toilet.

Clint mutters under his breath, "You going to hold my dick for me too?"

"Keep up the three years old with a tantrum act, I just might." Natasha replies, not an ounce of pity in her voice. If Clint had been less angry, he would have been grateful for that, but as it is, he's tired, cranky, and in no small amount of pain.

Natasha doesn't leave his side once, propping herself under his arm and looking bored as he pees. She drags him back to the bed afterwards, helping him on it despite his protests.

Pointedly, she presses the call button at his side. When the nurse appears, she asks for Clint's next dose of pain medications.

"Nat, I don't need -"

"Shut up." Natasha interrupts, "I am this close to strapping you in restraints right now, so don't say a fucking word."

Clint glares, leaning back against the headboard with his arms crossed over his chest, but it's about as effective as using a pellet gun against the Hulk. He's sulking and knows it, but he can't snap himself out of it.

He doesn't like medical, but Clint's not an idiot. He knows there's been some serious damage done to his body. It's going to take more than a few days and a couple of band-aids to heal, but he's been here for weeks now and it feels like he hasn't made any progress at all. All it's been since he's woken is consult after consult and non-stop poking and prodding of the invalid.

They haven't mentioned it yet, but he knows the doctors are scared of the electrocution affecting his spatial awareness and muscle control. He's picked up at least that much from the hushed conversations. People always make a big deal about his eyes, but Clint has pretty damn good hearing too.

It sounds like they're waiting to draw any conclusions until he's more healed up and can stand long enough to test out his aim, but the fact that they're questioning it at all terrifies Clint. It's his aim. His one and only saving grace. It gives him a whole new set of issues to have nightmares about.

Clint's been poor all his life. A trailer trash kid from Iowa without a penny to his name. Up until SHIELD, his crowning achievement had been a starring slot in a dying circus. But throughout everything; the orphanage, the foster homes, the circus, he'd always had his perfect aim. He was fucking vain about it too and he knew it, but he had every right to be. He was damn good.

Was being the operative word. If he can't shoot anymore, he'll be grounded. And Clint knows what they'll do with hawks that can't fly.

Clint's natural default when he's scared is to withdraw until people go the fuck away, so he sits and he glares, and he doesn't say a word. As usual, Natasha can see right through him.

With a sigh, she perches on the edge of his bed and places a hand on the crook of his elbow, tugging until he uncrosses his arms. Clint's fingers are free of the splints but they still feel stiff and unyielding. Gently, she takes his hand into hers, massaging lightly into his palm and fingers.

They sit in silence for long minutes while she concentrates on soothing the tenseness out of his hands, lulling him into the quiet rhythm until he feels the tension in his body bleed away. Not looking up from their joined hands, she says softly, "I didn't think I'd see you again."

"I didn't either." Clint replies honestly. For a moment, he's pulled back to those long hours tied in the warehouse and the haze of stumbling through empty streets. He shakes his head. "I didn't think I'd make it out, but there was this guy on the comm. Coulson. He wouldn't let me give up."

"Coulson." Natasha repeats, a thoughtful look on her face, "Name doesn't sound familiar. He must be from the local office."

Clint shrugs, more settled now that the medication has started to kick in too. He can still recall with clarity the steadiness of Coulson's voice in his ear and his gentle encouragement when Clint was ready to throw in the towel. "I wouldn't have made it out without him."

"At least there was someone who knew what they were doing. The field office was a scrambling mess until we got your call." She comments as she switches hands, warming his fingers in the cup of her palms before starting. "I'm glad he was there for you."

"This is why I need you to watch my back." Clint tells Natasha, matter-of-fact. "Everyone else is just incompetent."

The corner of her lip twitches up. Clint knows her well enough to read the fondness in the expression. "Well, I'm here now, so go back to sleep. I'll keep watch."

Clint responds by inching over enough that she can fit and Natasha settles beside him on the mattress, close enough that he can feel the warmth of her body. As he starts to drift off, he thinks he hears her whisper, "Thanks for making it back."

"Always." He mumbles into the pillow as he drifts off.

* * *

The first time he makes it back to the range, his physician insists on staying and watching. He's not the only one. Clint can't see them, but he knows Fury and Hill are there too, watching from beyond the range enclosure.

He ignores them as he looks over his bow and equipment, running the checklist in his head as he has a hundred of times prior. He fastens and refastens his guards, tests the tension on his string. It soothes his nerves, helps him steady his breath and focus.

When he's ready, Clint steps up to the lane, his body naturally arranging into the proper stance as he narrows his eyes on the target. There's a row of tiny black crosshairs set against white. Stationary target. 25m distance. An insult to his skills.

He draws on the breath in and looses on exhale.

He misses.

The arrow lands on the inner rings, just outside the crosshairs.

He draws again. Then again and again, but his hands are starting to shake against the draw weight and the last arrow he fires misses the target completely.

He lowers his bow, breathing hard. Brings a trembling hand to swipe against his mouth.

"Agent Barton?"

He stares at the cluster of arrows around the target. Not a single one has found it's mark. The last time he shot this badly, Trickshot had beaten him until he couldn't walk.

Clint can't take his eyes off his last arrow. Just stares at the black fletching until he can't see anything else. At his side, his hand grips and regrips at his bow.

"Agent Barton?" A hand touches his shoulder and Clint snaps.

"Get out!" He roars, whirling around. The doctor flinches back, but they're not SHIELD trained for nothing and he holds his ground.

"There's no need to panic, Agent Barton." He says calmly, arms held in front of his like he's trying to calm a rabid dog. "This may not mean anything. We just need to do some more tests-"

Clint throws his bow at him. He follows with his quiver and is about to bodily attack when he gets tossed to the ground and amid the explosion of pain down his side, he feels a pinch at the thick muscle between his neck and shoulder and then the world is blissfully quiet.

* * *

That little stint earns him another month in medical, and the most comprehensive set of eye exams Clint has ever undergone.

When they finally let him out of medical, there are strict instructions in place and Natasha to ensure he follows them. Clint ignores their well wishes and the cane they offer and hobbles back to his quarters.

In the time of his covalence, the rumours have run rampant amongst the other agents. Everywhere he goes, he imagines the whispers that follow.

_Clint Barton was tortured for three days straight. Clint Barton was flayed until his skin was hanging by strips. Clint Barton had his fingers snapped and his tongue cut out by his captors._

Clint doesn't have the energy nor the inclination to set the agents straight. Some days he doesn't know if he can even get out of bed. There's a bone deep weariness wrapped around him that he just can't shake.

He's never been the most social person, but he withdraws even more now from what little interaction he had with other personnel and guards himself against prying eyes. He takes to odd hours at the gym, eats alone in his room, and is silent on the comm in a way his handlers would have only dreamed about before.

But despite his virtual disappearance from the public eye, the rumours continue.

_Clint Barton was beaten until he came back broken._

He wonders how true that one was.


	3. Chapter 3

Clint tries to rest for the first few weeks, but it gets old depressingly quickly. There is surprising little to do when he is restricted from too much physical activity. He never realized just how much of the day he dedicated to pummelling other people and objects in the name of training. Now most of his days are spent wandering between his room and the common areas.

Over the past few months, he's gotten to know most of SHIELD medical pretty well. They're an all right group of people, but damn do they make it hard for him to like them. Every time he would venture out to the common rooms, someone from psych would inevitably track him down to ask him how he was feeling that day, or how he was dealing with the changes in his life, or, and this was the best one, how he was recovering in the wake of his 'interrogation'.

Clint is really tired of the questions. He doesn't need the constant reminder that he was dumb enough to be taken prisoner and 'interrogated' for two days straight. He has first-hand intimate knowledge of all the ways in which he was 'interrogated', and he doesn't feel like sharing.

He's going to have a fucking nervous breakdown if people don't. stop. asking.

As a consequence, Clint is mostly resigned to staying in his quarters and reading. Well, that and searching the internet for porn, but even that had lost its appeal after a few solid weeks. Plus, he figures he doesn't need tendonitis on top of everything else.

When they finally give him the go ahead to train, Clint gratefully seizes the opportunity with both hands. He becomes single-mindedly focused on making it back to field status. Psych would probably have a field day about what that says about his self-worth or some other bullshit, but Clint doesn't give a shit. He just wants to get back out into the field and punch something. Someone, preferably.

Gradually, he ramps up his training until he's spending hours in the gym. The road back isn't smooth, but Clint expected no less. He knows his limits. He accepts that no matter how hard he works on it, he's probably always going to have that slight limp from the damage in his hip and a split second of hesitation when kicking off his right side.

He may never be back on par with his previous competency level, the muscle damage was too severe for that, but he's still head and shoulders above any other agent save Natasha. Nothing's going to stop him from getting back to active field status.

It's Assistant Director Hill who has the final sign off. She does so with speculative eyes that observe him closely throughout the psych evaluations, the physicals, the arms recertification, and through all the other hoops that Clint is forced to jump.

Clint knows Hill had never wanted him with SHIELD in the first place. She had fought long and hard against his recruitment, only to be overridden by Director Fury. Clint still remembers the way her sharp voice rang over the newest class of recruits and how the weight of her gaze had settled upon him as she had spoken. Loyalty. Dedication. Sacrifice. To her, recruiting a former mercenary was an abhorrent notion.

Nowadays, she oversees operations rather than handle assets directly, but she still maintains control over final deployments. She was the one who'd sent him on that fuck up of a mission in the first place. Not at any point does Clint see a single inkling of remorse for that. He hadn't expected any.

His first few missions back are milk runs. Intel gathering. Surveillance. They're missions that require little interaction with the targets, little chance of action at all. It would be - should be - an insult to send someone on his level, but Clint's so grateful to be back in the field that he'll take anything at this point.

* * *

Eventually they send him out to the desert to observe, and possibly eliminate, a new player gaining power in West Africa.

Around day five, Clint's reaching the end of his rope. There are certain tricks that one can employ to keep circulation moving, keep muscles from tensing, and prevent pressure sores when maintaining one position for an extended period of time. Clint knows all of them, has used all of them at one point or another, but he forgot to take into account the effect of prolonged inactivity on his recovering joints and muscles.

The throbbing starts in his traitorous right hip and spreads down his leg, shooting pins and needles whenever he moves. He's taken to his last resort trick, reciting the multiplication tables in his mind to try to ignore the pain. When that doesn't work, he starts going through his repertoire of knock, knock jokes in desperation. There's a lot.

Despite placing his hideout in the shade, Clint feels like he's baking. There's about three more hours until the end of his watch, and he imagines by the end of it, he'll just faint over the side to get to the ground. He's trying to decide the best position in which to sprawl for maximum effect when his comm clicks to life.

"Agent Barton."

"Sir?" Clint croaks out. Hill's the lead on this operation, but Michaels is his direct handler. This new voice belongs to neither of them. However, it does sound familiar, and Clint mentally sifts through his list of alternate handlers. He licks his lips and tries again. "New orders, Sir?"

"No. No change. Just checking to make sure you haven't expired in the heat."

Clint is mildly surprised. Usually once he's up in his nest, no one pays him any mind outside of scheduled check-ins or until the action begins. He doesn't know whether to be annoyed that they felt the need to check up on him, or grateful that they wanted to make sure he wasn't dead from heat exhaustion yet.

Suddenly, it clicks where he's heard this voice before. "Coulson?" He asks hopefully.

"Barton." Coulson replies, faint amusement tingeing his voice.

"I thought Hill was running this one."

"There were other pressing matters that required her attention. I've been temporarily assigned until the situation is resolved."

"Hmm." Clint says knowingly, "That stick up her ass giving her trouble again?"

"Hilarious." Coulson deadpans.

Clint cracks a grin, eyes still focused on the target site through the scope. "Did you need something, Sir?"

"More than you'd be able to provide, Agent, however, I'm willing to settle. How are you faring, Agent Barton?"

"Fresh as a spring chicken, Sir."

"Will you require relief for the remainder of your shift?"

The question immediately sparks a longing for the bed he left this morning; his soft, warm, and oh so comfortable bed, but Clint tamps down the desire almost as soon as it appeared. He would never live it down if he packed it in early. "I'll make it, Sir. You may have to scrape me up and pour me into the jet after I'm done, but I'll make it."

"Noted. Good work, Barton. Stay hydrated." And with that last suggestion, Coulson is gone as abruptly as he came.

Moving slowly, Clint digs out the juice pouch he has hidden in his pack. It isn't any cooler or any less muggy outside, but Clint sips it with a smile.

The rest of the day passes uneventfully, as do the following few days. Three weeks into his assignment Clint finally gets the kill order. The World Security Counsel wants to make a statement, so they ask for the death to take place in a public venue.

Clint makes a face when he hears that. That means a market and markets introduce a ton of new variables into play. It's nothing he can't handle, but it's still an annoyance he could have done without. To make matters worse, they want him using a rifle instead of his preferred bow in order to make it to seem like a rival kill instead of a government sanctioned hit.

He finds his perch early in the day and mentally preps himself for another shift of staying stock still to avoid the possibility of someone from the crowd spotting him. He's been following the target long enough to know that on Wednesdays he comes to the market with his family, purportedly to spend time with them, but in reality to meet with the tall, reedy man in the small, out of the way stall, to exchange words and envelopes in the half shadows.

The sun is up early, scorching the earth until heat is visibly rising off the ground. It turns the air into a shimmering haze. Clint can already feel the sweat beading down the back of his neck into the collar of his uniform. It gets into his eyes, stinging and burning, but he makes no move to relieve the irritation. He waits for hours unmoving, not a twitch to betray his position.

The migraine starts as it usually does, this time triggered by heat and dehydration. At first, it's just a small throbbing at the base of his skull, always slightly to the left. As the hours pass, it spreads to encompass his whole head in a hammering mess that radiates down his neck and into his shoulders.

Not for the first time, Clint starts rethinking his decision to come back to the field so quickly. Perhaps the long term effects from the concussion weren't as healed up as he thought. Still, he has yet to abandon a target since his return, and he's not about to stop for this. Not when he's so close.

He slides a wafer of Maxalt out from his front pocket and slips it past parched lips. Ideally, he'd rather not take medication at all, but the migraine has a higher change of fucking with his aim than the medication does.

Hopefully, he'd caught it soon enough to curb the worst of the pain, although the way his week has been going he doubts it. As stealthily as he can, he takes a few sips from his water pack before the nausea starts, then he grits his teeth and settles in.

Mid-afternoon his target arrives, conveniently when the market is bustling and when the loud voices of the vendors and crowds have been shooting spikes through Clint's temple for hours. The comm channels crackle to life, and Clint acknowledges that he has eye on the target. He follows him through his scope, patiently waiting for the moment when he gets the all clear to shoot.

Slowly, his finger tightens on the trigger, and Clint loses himself in the rhythm of breaths and heartbeats, waiting for his target to step into the correct position, and for the beat between heartbeats when he'll pull and send a bullet through his eye.

Suddenly, there's a whip sharp crack of noise and the market explodes into motion.

Clint is yanked hard from his previous state of mind with a gut churning jolt of adrenaline. He struggles to follow his target through the crowds where people now are screaming and scattering everywhere.

Over the comm the frequencies are flooded with shouted orders, but no one is making sense. It gets louder and louder until the pounding in his heart is echoed in the throbbing of his hip and a roar in his ear.

Through his scope, he spots soldiers starting to force their way through the crowds. He's about to dismantle and abort when he hears Coulson's voice rising above the rest.

"Agent Barton. Status report."

"Clusterfuck, sir." Clint replies tersely. He curses Hill for not warning him about competition for the hit, Intel for not predicting a rival attempt, and then Logistics for fucking it up once again. After that, he adds the target for choosing the market, and the crowds of bystanders running around like chicken below. "I've lost the mark."

"Are you able to locate him again?"

"Not unless he starts shooting up neon green beacons. Did I happen to mention the clusterfuck down there?"

"You'll find him."

Clint grits his teeth, staring down the line of his scope. He would give anything to have his bow right now. To have that familiar solid grip in his right hand and the gentle creak of the string past his ear, but SHIELD wants to leave no footprints. His bow was far too conspicuous.

"Agent Barton." Coulson says evenly, breaking through his train of thought. "Slow down. Calm down and breathe. Focus on the task at hand, Agent Barton."

Clint wants to tell the guy he sounds like an ad for hot yoga, but he also wants to not fuck up another mission, so he does as he's told.

"Got him?"

Clint takes a slow breath and takes the panic, the pain in his head, the longing for his bow, and all the other millions of things shouting for his attention and pushes them down.

The sweat burns a cut on the underside of his jaw. A muscle in his back twinges.

He focuses on the crowd, filtering through people until he sees his mark. He allows the tiniest bit of satisfaction to slip through his voice. "Got him."

"Green light. Take the shot."

Clint shoots.

He doesn't stick around to see the aftermath. As soon as he gets the shot off, he starts packing. It's past time to get the hell out of dodge.

When he gets back to the rendezvous point, Hill looks fit to have kittens. Their convoy is the last to leave, because they had to wait for his sorry ass. Clint can almost see the expletives floating above her head as she orders him into the jeep, lecturing the whole while about his recklessness.

Clint bares it all in silence. He doesn't know what she's all up in arms about; he got the damn target. But right now, he doesn't give enough of a shit to argue with her. His head is pounding, and he just wants to lie down.

Vaguely, he wonders if they have wait for Coulson or if the man is already gone. He would much rather listen to Coulson's voice lecturing about proper SOP than Hill's, but as soon as Clint gets in, they slam the door shut, and the convoy roars off in a cloud of dust.

* * *

Clint wakes up in Medical. Of course. Fuck Medical.

Distantly, he remembers downing an entire litre of water and whatever pills were handed to him before lying sideways across the bench seat in the cargo hold of the jet. Everything got a little fuzzy after that.

The room feels freezing in comparison to the desert heat, and the contrast isn't helping much with the tap dancers in his head. He's thankful that at least the nausea has subsided.

There are no windows in the room he's been confined to, but there is a clock on the opposite side of the room so he knows it's three, but without the sunlight he can't decide whether it's am or pm.

"It's a.m." comes a voice from his right. The words are delivered softly, but they carry easily across the stillness of the room.

Clint startles and glances over sharply. There's a man perched in the chair in the corner of the room.

Clint studies him carefully. He looks to be maybe a handful of years older than Clint, dark brown hair starting to recede and dressed in a suit that Clint is willing to bet is worth more than his entire wardrobe. He's leaning forward towards Clint, elbows resting on his knees, and a faint look of amusement on his face.

There's something in the way he holds himself. Something about the smile that almost plays upon his face, and the way his gaze holds Clint's steady. "Coulson?" Clint ventures tentatively.

The man smiles, "Phil is fine."

Clint pushes himself up onto an elbow. "You know that's kind of creepy, right?"

There's a soft huff of laughter. "I preferred not to wake you if I could help it. You looked like you could use the sleep." And Clint can't argue with that. He'd caught a glance of himself in the bathroom mirror a few days ago, and it was more than a little cringe-worthy. His face was haggard and the shadows under his eyes were starting to grow shadows.

"Are you waiting to debrief?" Clint asks, because he can't think of any other reason someone would wait in his room at the ass crack of dawn.

Phil's lips press together, like he wants to laugh and is trying to hide it. "The questions can wait. Generally, I find debriefing more effective when the operative is fully awake and caffeinated."

"Oh." There's a pause as Clint processes this. It's unusual for anyone to visit him, much less in the early hours before dawn. Even Natasha won't come to see him this early. Clint's mind immediately starts to explore ulterior motives. When he can't think of any, he asks, "Then why are you here? Umm... Sir." He tacks on belatedly.

Phil shrugs depreciatively, the motion not disrupting the lines of his suit at all, "No particular reason. I was finishing up for the day and wanted to look in on you."

Clint is unexpectedly, and probably inordinately, pleased by this. The only thing that keep him from beaming up at Phil is the notion that he should keep at least some of his dignity intact. He nods as casually as he can and says, "Thank you, Sir. I'm sorry to have kept you."

"It's not an issue. I keep odd hours. It comes with the job." That being said, it is still the middle of the night.

Clint is impressed about the kind of clearance that Phil must have to get in here. He's pretty sure that the nurses at SHIELD are hired more for their balls of steel than any other particular skill, because they will go up against anyone and anything to make sure that the general ward is empty after midnight. Those guys are hard-core about patients getting their rest.

"How did you get in here?" Clint asks. "I thought that crazy red-headed nurse worked nights. That woman is utterly terrifying. I think even Fury's afraid of her."

Phil shifts back in the chair, folding his arms across his chest. "I have my ways."

"Crazy secret ninja ways?"

Phil chuckles, "How are you feeling?"

"Better." Clint replies immediately. Well, that is true. His brain no longer feels like it wants to melt out from in between his ears.

Phil raised an eyebrow.

Clint cocks his head to the side, "Is that eyebrow thing something they teach you at SHIELD?"

"Agent Barton."

"Did I miss a class? 'Cause you and Nat have it down." Clint rattles on, ignoring the look of sympathy building on Phil's face.

"Clint."

"Fine." Clint heaves a sigh. "So you know on TV, how the heroes jump out of a cars, fall down fire escapes, get shot, and then are completely fine the next episode? Apparently that doesn't actually happen in real life. When shit happens and it's six months down the line, you know what? It still feels like shit." Clint wasn't raise to be a whiner, but it's been a bad week, on top of a whole lot of worse months, and frankly, he's getting a little tired of it.

"Your injuries won't last forever," Phil says patiently, "but you may have to be prepared for the fact that there will always be setbacks."

Setbacks, right. Clint is well versed in setbacks. Sometimes it feels like Clint's entire life has been composed of one escalating obstacle after another. He's getting a little tired of the world beating him into the ground. Is it too much to ask to catch a little break once in a while?

He scowls, "I am fucking sick of it. You know what's a setback? I can't seem to make it two weeks out of medical. Everyone thinks I'm some sort of pity case., and to solve it, people want to _talk_, like fucking talking will magically fix everything." Clint gestures wildly with his hands. "Who the hell every wants to talk about their feelings? So then I have Psych following me around looking like I took the last piece of pie and left the empty box on the counter."

Clint feels the words bubbling up in his throat, and try as he might, he can't stop his mouth from moving. "I hurt all the time. My fingers hurt, my head hurts, my hip wants to declare independence and physically rip off my body. I hate it. So you can take your setbacks and fucking stuff it."

Clint's breathing hard by the end of his rant. He glares at Phil, who hasn't twitched from his position in the chair.

The standoff ends when Phil tips his head to the side, smiling disarmingly, "Feel better?"

Clint winced, "Sorry. I'm not really sure where that came from."

"Well, they do say caring is sharing." Phil deadpans and Clint lets out a surprised bark of laughter. Phil's expression softens. In a gentle voice, he adds, "I would suggest though, that these are the sort of things that you should be sharing with your therapist, rather than wasting your energy in an elaborate game of hide and seek."

Clint mouth twists to the side, "Et tu, brute?"

Phil's about to respond when there's a light knock on the door, and red-headed nurse steps in a second later and flicks on the lights. If she's surprised to see him awake, she doesn't show it.

At her entrance, Clint swivels to face her, irritated. There're a lot of things about the medical ward that he doesn't like and this nears the top of the list. Why do medical staff even bother knocking if they weren't going to wait for an acknowledgement before entering?

"What?" He demands shortly, but his disgruntled look does nothing to phase her.

She walks to his bedside, grabs his chart and says pleasantly, "I thought I heard your voice. How are you feeling, Agent Barton?"

Clint crosses his arms over his chest, "Peachy."

"Well, that's certainly good to hear." She smiles distractedly while her eyes remain down on the chart, checking his vitals and scribbling them down with smooth efficiency. Not once does she even spare a glance at Phil.

Clint watches their non-interaction and mentally notches his estimation of Phil's clearance level to 'past any level you currently knew existed.'

The nurse, McKenna, Clint belatedly recalls, asks cheerfully, "Would you like anything for sleep, Agent Barton?"

Phil hums lightly and shakes his head.

Clint in total agreement. He doesn't like taking medication for sleep. Not only did they affect his reaction time, but the pills tended to leave a weird metallically taste in his mouth that was just disgusting.

"Agent Barton?" McKenna is still looking at him expectantly.

"Uh no, thanks. I'm fine." He replies. She looks sceptical, but leaves with a promise to be back if he needs anything.

Sleep has never been a problem for Clint. Over the years, he's learned to catch up on sleep basically anywhere. Even the mention of it now makes him yawn. He stifles it with the palm of his hand and mutters sorry to Phil.

Phil shakes his head, "No, my apologies, Agent Barton. I forget that not everyone subscribes to the same hours that I do. I'll let you catch up on some sleep."

"You staying?" The question slips out unintentionally. Clint winces and tries to convince himself that it didn't come out sounding too pitiful.

"I could." Phil replies without judgement. He resumes his previous position, elbows rested lightly on his knees. His expression is kind, undemanding, as Clint settles under the covers. "Sleep. I'll keep watch."


End file.
